


A Career in Assholery

by orphan_account



Series: Post Sburb [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Post SBURB, sad lonely angry confused losers, who even knows what dave's thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 23:16:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1796938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"TG: so hey<br/>TG: i figured i should just say something <br/>TG: looks like youre not online but whatever<br/> TG: i can just hang this shit out to dry and you can check it at your leisure"</p><p>---------------------------------------------------------------</p><p>Fuck him. He doesn't even get an apology.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Career in Assholery

**Author's Note:**

> beware:
> 
> word vomit
> 
> im so tired and i still have two more finals tomorrow
> 
> i shouldnt have even written this

When he actually summons the energy to face up to his problems and stop imagining himself some fakey-fake ex girlfriend roommate like a pathetic piece of shit, it’s been about three days. Time slips by like molasses out of an hourglass, slow, and not even dripping. Hell, it’ll probably crystalize before it reaches the bottom. Bro doesn’t open the door, but he walks through the little hallway that connects Dave’s room to the bathroom and the main-room more than he has to.   
Bro’s checking up on him, and it unnerves Dave. Obviously, the man doesn’t know he’s the knight of fucking time. He apparently doesn’t recognize that Dave has served up more monster ass on silver platters than Bro’s served up plush puppet rump to freaks over the internet—which is to say, Dave has basically chopped off infinite beast-bottom. The sea of rear is unceasing.   
And Bro’s still worried, still pausing by the door, listening for something. Dave doesn’t know what he’s looking for. Colorful cursing? The scrape of a tablet-pen against it’s board? Dramatic singing to a long, slow song, because Dave’s had his heart broken by the apocalypse? He doesn’t know. Maybe Bro doesn’t know either—but no. Bro knows almost everything.

   Fuck. No, he doesn’t. It sure as shit seems like it though.

   When he actually summons the energy to turn on the computer, it’s three am. He’s gone four nights with little sleep, the only actual rest interrupted by a nonsensical nightmare where he’s standing before a council of horror terrors, and then one shatters into pieces, and those pieces become pairs of sunglasses, which crawl around and pick at him.  
  They tear the flesh from his bones like he picks scabs, tiny piece by tiny piece until he can see the bone beneath his skin. When he wakes up, he’s staring at the ceiling from his floor, and he hurriedly removes his shades from his face. His breath comes out in hot pants of breath, and it seems to fog up the room. It wasn’t even a realistic dream.   
A giant tentacle-monster broke, became sunglasses, and started to pick him apart in the vast emptiness of space, only watched by the million eyes of other lovecraftian beings, with writhing dark limbs and teeth where no mouths should be. Rose would have a field day, if she still did dream interpretation. It was kind of a joke in the first place, but maybe she still does, and fuck if she didn’t like prodding around in his mind beforehand.   
He peels himself from the floor like a sticker from a sheet, and stumbles over to the computer, rubbing his eyes wearily.     
He boots it up, and the screen goes gray. Dave regrets leaving his sunglasses on the ground, and tries to shield his eyes with his hand. Eventually it loads, and pesterchum opens itself like an eager puppy who’s master just returned.   
Somewhat reluctantly, he clicks on it, and scrolls down to the “T” names. Dirk is offline, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Rose is also offline, and he rests his cheek in his hand as he considers where to proceed. Terezi is greyed out, and Jade is sleeping. Her icon is lit up, but she’s been sleeping constantly. Dave would never be able to understand why, but if she’s cool with it, then he’s not about to bag on her happiness.    
John’s offline. Karkat is online, but Dave can’t think of anything to say.

   He sits there, scrolling up and down. He doesn’t even know most of these chum handles, and eventually Karkat goes offline too. 

Dave boneheadedly thinks he’s missed an opportunity. Eventually, he clicks his own pesterchum icon online, and goes to message Dirk.   
It’s because Dirk isn’t there, so it’s safe just to go in there and apologize. The dude wasn’t wrong, he unnerves Dave. Dave doesn’t want to talk to him, but he feels like he’s got a responsibility to because they’re sort of related. Kind of. He sucks in a silent breath, and his fingers begin to flick over the keys.  

— turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering timaeustestified [TT] at 03:54 —

— timaeustestified [TT] is not online —

TG: so hey  
TG: i figured i should just say something   
TG: looks like youre not online but whatever   
TG: i can just hang this shit out to dry and you can check it at your leisure

— timaeustestified [TT] is online —

”Shit,” Dave mutters, trying to see if there’s a way to backtrack out of this. Unsurprisingly, he finds none, and he would bet that even if his aspect powers were working, and he wasn’t a total fucking wuss, that they wouldn’t stop an event from having happened in an entirely different universe.  
   
TG: okay   
TG: live audience i can work with that too hey whats up brother from another test tube  
TG: doesnt have the same ring as brother from another mother but i guess we dont really have mothers  
TT: Technically, you do.  
TG: right  
TG: yeah okay well i didnt really come online to talk about my dubious alternate universe test-tube heritage  
TT: Yeah.

God, he’s not making this easy. That’s probably the point. Fuck, why is he even trying? He should have just ignored him, that would have been so much easier.

TT: Any time now, dude. As cool as staring at the screen is, I was under the impression that you had some laundry to dry. 

Fuck this. Fuck him. It’s four am and Dave has better things to do (like pretending to sleep).

TG: yeah alright fine  
TG: i came back to say youre a huge asshole  
TT: That’s not what you were going to say.  
TG: no thats exactly what i was going to say because its exactly fucking correct you are a huge asshole  
TG: you are an anus the size of jupiter  
TG: kids look up into the sky and they say  
TG: DADDY IS THAT A BUTTHOLE????  
TG: and the dads stroke their stubble wisely and reply   
TG: fuck off you little shit im trying to yank off a couple rounds here   
TG: but when theyre done stroking their turgid trouser shnauzers they emerge from their dens and say  
 TG: yeah kid thats the biggest asshole of them all and its name is dirk strider  
 TG: and the kids gaze up in wonder and disgust because there is a giant fuckin asshole visible from space right above them and that asshole is you man   
TG: that asshole is you   
TT: I feel like I should ask you if you’re intoxicated.   
TT: When’s the last time you slept for more than three hours?

This was an awful idea and he seriously thinks he might hate Dirk.

TT: You logged on and started a chat with me because you wanted to apologize for avoiding, and ignoring me.  
 TG: yeah thats exactly why i logged on and why im talking to you   
TG: thats also why im singing your fucking praises rn   
TG: you can hear the worship in the echoing tone of my voice its a sorrowful and longing song  
 TT: I think this would go a lot simpler if you just stopped bullshitting everything.  
TT: I know that your whole career is in dedication to making it seem as though you’re not doing what you are, but for fuck’s sake, man.   
TT: Tone down the drama.  
 TG: wait what  
 TG: what career  
 TT: Your webcomics.  
 TG: those are legitimately the least important thing to me  
TG: sbahj can go down the drain for all i care it was some shitty thing from when i was thirteen what does it even have to do with anything  
 TG: dude i think you know jackshit about me and how i operate so if you could just climb down off your high horse and maybe stick your nose into its shit that would be fantastic  
TT: Except I do know about you. I’ve spent most of my life reading up on you and even if I didn’t; I talk to Rose, you know.   
TT: Not everybody in your session decided to abandon everyone in ours. 

— turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering timaeustestified [TT] at 04:21 —

TT: Yeah.  
 TT: Fuck you too.

— turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]] at 04:21 —  
— tentacleTherapist [TT] is not online —

TG: fuck you oh my god  
  TG: why  
TG: tentacle therapist  
TG: rose you dont deserve that title anymore youre just tentacle nosey broad  
 TG: does the term patient confidentiality mean anything to you   
TG: fuck   
TG: nevermind just read this and assume ive gotten over it by the time you wake up   
TG: but until you wake up just imagine im scribbling a picture of you out of a cheesy photo album listening to bad pop music and whining about how youre dead to me forever  
 TG: and then laugh because we both know id never do that

— turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 04:31 —

He hasn’t been this close to crying since that one day where he was looking at all of his old selfies. He’s not about to cry, but the frustration and confusion and built up emotion is driving him nuts. He lets his head drop onto the desk, and the resounding noise is satisfying in a way his metaphors can’t really describe. 

  His ghost Terezi doesn’t make an appearance, and that’s probably because he’s so fucking tired of being so pathetic. Was it always this bad? Was he always such a bag of shit? Maybe Bro’s right to check up on him constantly. Maybe he is legitimately going nuts. He calms down his breathing and thumps his head on the desk again.  
  Fuck.

  It was just a goddamn internet conversation with a guy he barely knows. It was just a conversation. He’s never had to quit a conversation like that, even back in the game he would usually stick around.    
The plastic wood of his desk sticks to his sweaty forehead and directs a clump of hair into his eye. He roughly pushes it away. There’s a shuffling noise from outside his door, and the tap starts running. It’s just Bro getting a drink.   
Tomorrow, Dave resolves.  
  Tomorrow he’ll talk about the game.  

 

Hours later, when the sun has risen on Austin, and the red brick glows under the hesitant morning light, Dave’s asleep, his forehead is slumped against the corner of the table, and here’s a small, dried puddle of drool on his knee.  
  The door cracks open, and the light from the window pours out into the hallway, splashing onto Bro’s leg. He’s there for a moment, standing with one un-gloved hand on the door and looking down. His eyes are sloped downward, lined at the corners, and shadowed heavily with dark circles.   
His hand rests on the door, and the rest of his arm sags down with a rare resignation. Out of respect, or weariness, or an unexplainable trepidation, he doesn’t cross the threshold. There’s a beat of wings from just outside the closed window, and he leaves as though he’d suddenly realized he does not belong here. The door closes, and the young, abased god lies with his head on the table as brief feelings ghost through his head like the wispy intentions of dreams.


End file.
